


Hell Or Glory

by barebackmountain



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: (Haha try and figure that one out), 2007-2008, Alternate Universe, Chaotic Evil, Chicago, Comedy, Drama, Fantasy, Fluff ??, Los Angeles, M/M, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Patrick doesn't die either, Patrick/Brendon for like half a second, Pete doesn't die, Peterick, Smut, Supernatural - Freeform, Top Patrick, background ryden, demon!gabe, demon!pete, fall out boy - Freeform, he can't really, inspired by BeWentzed, much later though, my chemical romance - Freeform, top pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barebackmountain/pseuds/barebackmountain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You were called here to be put on a mission. This—” he carelessly shoved a thick file at Pete, “—is someone that you need to persuade onto the dark side.” Pete eyed the file suspiciously before snatching it off the desk and opening it to a photo of a smiling man with black-rimmed glasses. Wasn’t too bad looking, Pete noted with a smirk.<br/>---<br/>Patrick Stump is a solo artist who was just kicked off his label because of Pete. Pete Wentz is a demon who just lost his job… because of Patrick. Patrick doesn't know it yet, but his life is going to become a living hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Or Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [BeWentzed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20685) by [Lenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore). 



> This took a very long time to make. So, please, enjoy it.

“NO!” someone sobbed loudly, their voice echoing throughout the room. Pete turned around, laughing quietly. Some dark-haired dude was being dragged away from the glowing red entrance that he came through, continuing to cry out in distress. He had tears spilling out from his eyes and desperate wrinkles etched across his forehead. This happened quite a few times a day, each soul picked off one by one because they just couldn’t help themselves. These wrongdoers got what they deserved the moment they took things that were rightfully not theirs. Sinning and death seemed to be at an all time high this year—election year. Gabe leaned in close to Pete.

“I give him a week,” he said, his hot breath hitting the side of Pete’s cheek. They weren’t really supposed to be talking on the job, but they got away with small conversations here and there. Gabe had a theory that it was because Pete was the devil’s favorite.

“He could be the type to get used to things pretty quickly.” Pete shrugged, distantly remembering when he got to Hell. 

The guy was still screaming and shouting how he “didn’t belong here” and “should get another chance”, just like the new ones always did. Sometimes the older residents would mock the new-comers, but today, people seemed really on edge and decided it would be best not to. Three Shadow figures hauled the sad man away to his new _“office”_ while he continued his inconsolable blabbering. Pete remembered how it was that first day being a demon. He also remembered how he wasn’t crying.

“You were a nervous wreck,” Gabe chuckled, shaking his head. Pete shrugged and turned back to his work.

“I just never thought I would get the pleasure of meeting the Dark Prince,” Pete cracked half a smile. Getting into Hell wasn’t as much of a surprise as it must have been to that other guy. He knew that he was a bad person on Earth and also never felt the need to apologize for it. Pete figured that going to Hell was just a given. Suddenly, a loud voice boomed from above them.

“Pete Wentz to Satan’s office. Now.” Gabe gave a sly grin as Pete rolled his eyes and walked toward the exit. The swinging doors swung shut behind him as he walked down the long, dark corridor that lead to a dark red 10-ft tall door with a plaque that read “EL DIABLO” above it. Pete took his time walking to the door, examining the walls he has walked among plenty of times. They were lined with some kind of frozen red liquid—was it blood or cherry Kool-Aid, he’d never know. He was also sure there was bits of bone scattered among that red substance, but also never bothered to look into that. There were six paintings of Satan hung on the walls, all labeled with dates. There was a painting for each millennium that passed for how long since Satan fell from Heaven, some 6,000 years ago. Pete wasn’t sure exactly who it was that did the paintings, but they were talented.

As he approached the door, Pete could hear Satan’s loud voice, “No, Jeremy, I can’t…” He must be talking to someone already. He knocked a few times on the door, then swung it open, letting himself in. Satan was nowhere in sight, but Pete assumed he was sitting in the big swivel chair at the other end of the room, which was faced away from Pete. Immediately, the volume of Satan’s voice lowered, “Baby, we’ll talk about this later, okay? Alright, I love you. Bye.” And a large arm came from behind the chair to set down the phone. Just the tip of Satan’s large horns were visible from where Pete stood, but he didn’t dwell on it long enough before the chair swung around and Satan was there grinning at him, horns fully in view.

“Pete! Thanks for coming. Sit.” Pete was immediately pushed roughly by invisible hands into a chair that appeared out of thin air directly in front of Satan’s desk. Pete couldn’t help but think how unnecessary it all was. After all, patience is a virtue. Biting back a smile at his own inner monologue, Pete watched as Satan stood and began to calmly walk over beside where he sat. “You were called here to be put on a mission. This—” he carelessly shoved a thick file at Pete, “—is someone that you need to persuade onto the dark side.” Pete eyed the file suspiciously before snatching it off the desk and opening it to a photo of a smiling man with black-rimmed glasses. Wasn’t too bad looking, Pete noted with a smirk. Behind the picture was pages of information on him—allergies, fears, weak spots, childhood pets, etc. Pete skipped right over his name and read the rest of it.

“He’s a musician that’s trying to get to the top,” Satan said interest tinging his voice.

“Who isn’t these days?” Pete mumbles absentmindedly, flipping through the pages.

“He’s not one to do any _serious_ sinning, so we need to change that. Once you’ve completed my task for you, I can assure that he’ll land a spot right next to you in Hell,” Satan grinned, walking around to the other side of Pete. “All you have to do is somehow coax him into stealing some other poor soul’s lyrics and then, BAM! He’s got ultimate fame, a couple Grammys, whatever. _And_ , I get his soul.” Pete nodded, feeling a malicious smile creeping onto his face.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” he agreed, standing up, file in hand. A grin stretched across Satan’s face and he patted Pete’s small frame with a large hand,

“Don’t fail me,” he demanded, shoving Pete hurriedly out the door and slamming it right behind him. That was actually quite nice, Pete thought. The best he’s ever been to Pete. As he walked away, he could hear Satan getting back on the phone and start talking to Jeremy once again. Pete rolled his eyes as he sauntered back down the hallway, blood-bone-Kool-Aid walls and all.

“So, what did he call you in for?” Gabe asked once Pete got back to the main hall. Pete handed him the file with a devious smile.

“I have to get this guy to start doing some serious sinning.”

**\+ + + +**

He lives in Los Angeles, California. What was his name again? Percy? Paul? Who cares. Pete immediately transports himself to the guy’s house. Standing at the end of his driveway, he notes how big it is. Probably bigger than his old high school. There were no cars in the driveway, so he assumed that the dude was out dealing with his music stuff. He made his way up to the front door, a great glass monster that Pete distantly wonders why anyone would trust such a fragile thing. He tries the handle; Obviously its locked. Pete rolls his eyes and just steps through the glass barrier. Big on the inside, too, sparkly clean. He distantly wonders if Paul has a maid to clean his house or if he does it all himself.

Pete’s eyes fall onto a large painting of David Bowie above the stairs to the right. Pete remembered when he used to listen to David—what good times. Sometimes (very rarely) he wished he was still alive so he could enjoy the things that humans created. In hell, there was such a barrier, that any music created on earth wasn’t heard of until months later.

He strolled around the rest of the house, taking in the interior. Did Preston (was it Pax?) get some work done in here before he bought it? Or did Pax buy it this way? Pete knew that he wasn’t one to be a critic, considering he grew up in a 1,000 square-foot house with four other people. This house, however, had to be about double that. No, no, _triple that_. Different instruments were scattered throughout the next room; a piano opposite the door, an acoustic guitar beside a love seat near the floor-to-ceiling window, sheets of music dispersed on a few different tables. This room looked the most lived in which gave Pete a better impression of this guy.

Nonetheless, Pete was quite impressed with the state in which the house was kept. It was obvious that Pablo liked it nice and tidy. This brought Pete back to when he was a rebellious teenager and refused to listen to his mother demanding that he clean up his mess (his entire room was the mess, including some aspects of his social life). He felt like maybe he should feel bad now, but that was quickly forgotten when he heard the front door open.

“I don’t think he’s _that_ serious,” a voice echoed from the other room. Pete almost panicked, then remembered that Perry couldn’t even see him right now. The man walked into the room, talking on his phone that was stuck between his shoulder and cheek, holding five bags full of groceries. He was smaller than Pete thought he would be. “Travie…” Percy paused, listening to their response, but continuing his journey into the kitchen. Pete followed. “Yeah, I know, but it’s not me! Travie, I totally agree with you, but it’s the record label that doesn’t think that-” He paused again, cracking a small smile. “Alright, I’ll talk to him… That’d be cool… Okay… bye, T.” He hung up and dropped the phone on the marble counter top and started putting away the groceries. Pete leaned against the doorway and watched as Preston started humming some song that Pete didn’t recognize. As Pete stared at the shorter man, he realized how happy he looked; so cheerful and alive. Did Pete ever look like that?

Pax finished putting away the rest of his groceries and then sauntered into the next room. Pete turned as Pablo was picking up a few pages with black ink scribbled all over them. Pete figured those were lyrics. Paul frowned at them, furrowing his eyebrows and slightly pursing his lips. Pete smiled and leaned on the piano. Without realizing, his arm reached over a bit too far and sent a green glass vase tumbling to the floor. The vase shattered on impact, causing Preston to snap his head up in that direction. He let out a frustrated breath of air, setting down the papers, then walking into the kitchen. Pete moved away from the piano as Paul came back into the room with a broom and dustpan, and proceeding to clean up the mess.

Once the mess was clean, he stood and looked at the top of the piano, pausing to stare. Pete moved a bit closer and saw that there was a coat of dust blanketing everywhere but a small circle right in the middle, far from the edge and just the size of the vase’s base. Pete waited for Pablo to start freaking out, but the house phone rang shrilly, cutting through the moment of perplexity.

Pax ran into the kitchen, throwing away the rest of the glass shards into the trash, then grabbing the phone and answering with a sing-songy, “Hello?” He paused to listen and his face immediately switched to disappointment. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Thanks, bye.” he pressed the END CALL button and grabbed his keys before flying out the front door. Pete grinned and followed.

**\+ + + +**

They drove for about twenty minutes before Paul pulled into the parking lot of the Island Records building. He had watched unnoticed as the tiny man tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to every song that played on the radio, a bit disappointed that Perry refused to sing along. He parked the car and took a deep breath before turning off the engine and getting out. Pete followed close behind, smiling and observing the exterior of the building, which was mostly made of glass. He could feel the sin seeping out of it and it fueled him forward.

The wooden floor and empty hallways allowed Percy’s footsteps to echo, giving Pete the chance to look around and walk along after him at the same time. They came to a stop in front of a desk, which a brunette secretary sat, typing away at the keyboard.

“How can I help you?” the secretary asked, not bothering to look away from the monitor. Pete read his name tag: Donovan.

“Um, yes, Patrick Stump to see Mr. Wellington,” he responded smoothly. Pete raised his eyebrows. So Patrick was his name. Well, at least he was close.

“Ah, yes, here it is. You can just go on in,” The secretary glanced up as Patrick walked away, looking at Pete and winking. Pete grinned and followed Patrick into the door behind the secretary’s desk that was labeled “CEO”. Inside, it was pretty empty besides a desk with a swivel chair behind it, two chairs in front of the desk, and a bookshelf to the right. The swivel chair was faced to the door, with a man—presumably Mr. Wellington—sitting in it. He was working on some paperwork bullshit, but the sound of Patrick's soft knock on the door frame caused him to look up. A forced smile stretched across his face.

“Ah, good afternoon, Patrick,” he greeted and stood up to shake Patrick’s hand. After sitting again, Mr. Wellington cleared his desk. Patrick sat down in one of the chairs. Pete ambled around to the other side of the desk, standing next to Mr. Wellington, watching Patrick. “Thank you for coming,”

“No problem,” Patrick answered blankly. It was obviously a problem for him, Pete thought and then chuckled to himself. Mr. Wellington wasn’t buying it either, but he went on.

“So, the reason you were called here—” he pulls out a few crumpled sheets of paper that looked like they were ripped out of several different notebooks. Pete could feel worry and confusion practically oozing out of Patrick. “We know that you’ve been having some trouble coming up with lyrics. So we took the liberty to find you some. Here.” Mr. Wellington said, handing them over to Patrick with a flick of the wrist.

Pete took a moment to push into Patrick’s thoughts, curious of what ran through the man’s head. It was a lot of effort. Pete wasn’t a fan of using this power, it was draining and took away the element of surprise that Pete so loved. Not to mention, it was a major invasion of privacy (not that breaking into homes and stalking jobs in the shadows wasn’t, but hey, some things are sacred you know?). Pete put so much power into getting into the man’s head that Patrick barely felt a thing when he was no longer the only one sifting through thoughts in his brain. Pete watched quietly, concentrating and waiting for unspoken answers. 

 

Patrick’s eyes roamed over the papers and he had to admit, they were really good, but he frowned at them, “What?” Mr. Wellington gave a tight smile.

“These here are- well, you don’t need to know where they came from exactly, but…” he pulled out one last piece of paper, but this one was printed and had a thin line at the bottom where a signature was supposed to go. “If you sign this, then they’re yours. Do we have a deal?” Patrick read over the sheet again. Realization slowly slid into place over his expression, but he reacted calmly.

“I just sign, but what’s the catch?”

“No catch! They’re yours! Then you make a nice tune to go with them and you’re back on top! It’s that simple, here’s a pen,” Mr. Wellington exclaimed, sliding one across the desk. Patrick read over the pages again and again his eyes not really seeing what he was reading and his mind rushing with what he could possibly say to an offer like this.

“Well, uh, I’ll think about it,” Patrick said dryly and folded the paper and stuck it in his jacket. Mr. Wellington frowned.

“Patrick, you already have music to go with them, don’t you?” he leaned back in his chair, making it squeak almost menacingly. It was true, he did. Patrick had the perfect song already made up in his head. He despised his mind for betraying him like that.

“Well, I-” he stuttered.

Mr. Wellington pressed on, “Then just do it now! If you take them, no one will even know! We’ll pay off the kids to get them to shut up about it and you’ll have dozens more fans-”

“Wait, these are stolen? From who?” Patrick questioned, feeling rage spread to his every limb. Did they really think that he would do this? To some kids?! His body felt like it was on fire and he had to clench his jaw with the effort to hold back the amount of curses he would like to spew.

Mr. Wellington chuckled, “That information isn’t necessary. Just sign it,” Patrick stood, pushing his chair back and causing it to fall to the carpeted floor with a soft thump.

 

“No! This- this is… no!” Pete’s eyes widened as he was pushed unceremoniously out of Patrick’s head without so much of a blink from him. Had he not been trying hard enough to stay in his mind? Or was this guy just that strong? No, that was impossible, Pete thought, no way did anything on earth have enough self control to toss him to the curb like that, especially not this chubby little creature that look as if he had never thrown a punch in his life. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. He tried to use his _Jedi_ tricks, tried to control Patrick. _Just sign it, sign it. You’ll become rich and successful with these lyrics._ Patrick shook his head, obviously forcing Pete out with no problem. Pete was breathless (which was a lot, coming from a guy that couldn’t actually breathe) with the effort to rein Patrick in with his thoughts, but to no avail. How could this be happening? Patrick ripped up the contract and Pete let out a gasp that he was sure was loud enough for everyone to hear. Patrick was about to storm toward the door but before he was almost out of the room he swung back around his brow furrowed with whatever thought he was about to act on. Making up his mind he unpaused himself and hurried back to the desk, snatched the stolen lyrics with an air of finality and then walked out.

Pete’s head snapped from the door where Patrick had just made his departure to Mr. Wellington who had basically launched himself across the desk and out into the hall “Hey! You get back here! Patrick! Patrick!” Mr. Wellington shouted after him. “If you walk out of here, you’re done! You’re finished as an artist at Island, you hear me?! Finished!” Patrick kept going, not turning back even once. Pete followed.

**\+ + + +**

Considering Pete didn’t do exactly what he was supposed to, it was no big surprise when he was called down to Satan’s office the very moment he got back to Tophet, the place he called his home, his hideout, and obviously, his hell. Before going back, however, he made sure to knock over a few glass things in Patrick’s house just because he felt like being a dick one last time before he never saw the little defiant bastard again. Why didn’t he just take the bait? Pete definitely would’ve. But then again, he could come up with some decent lyrics, so he wouldn’t have ever found himself in that situation. Pete smirked at that, at least he had that to pride himself on on days that went to shit like this one, at least he had some real talent, and that wasn’t even being conceded, just fact.

“Did you get him to do it?” Gabe questioned as he approached, pulling Pete out of his little revery. Pete grumbled an incoherent bunch of words and pushed past him, not in the mood to chat about the day's failures, heading right to the room he was called to. This time, as he approached the door, it swung right open and some invisible force pulled him right in front of Satan’s desk again, which his feet were propped up on and his arms rested behind his head lazily. His mouth was busy occupying a large cigar the size of Pete’s entire hand, so it took a moment for him to acknowledge the little demon’s presence.

“It was true, you know,” Satan sighed, looking out in the distance as if there was anything there to look at besides the wall. Pete had a slight idea what he was talking about, but waited silently for him to continue. “Gabriel’s theory, I mean. You were my favorite.” _Was, were, was, were, was, were,_ Pete repeated over and over in his head. Those words circled around him, choking him, but he tried to show no emotion, as if Satan couldn't feel it, regardless. Satan sat up and blew the smoke right in Pete’s face. It felt almost like a breath of clean air to Pete’s damaged existence. Almost... except for the fact that Pete didn’t breathe and there was nothing clean about the grave expression the King gave him. He put out the cigar, leaned in close to Pete’s face and whispered,

“You’re fired.”

And that was it.

**Author's Note:**

> Let us know if you like it! Seriously, we really want to know. 
> 
> -Bone Daddy & skeletoncookie 
> 
> Tumblr: twinsea-goats


End file.
